Checks and Scrabble
by TheRealAlyshebaFan
Summary: Just two little Carlowe fluff-drabbles.


Just some quick little Carlowe drabbles, because I was sitting here listening to music and batting around ideas for a sequel to 'Just Another Day' and for 'Season for Justice' and not really coming up with much, but the muse was hanging around insisting I do something anyway. Hard to imagine how Johnny Cash and Charlie Robeson can inspire such things, but I'm weird. Blame my father.

I love NetFlix. I've been watching _Psych_ a good deal lately (the episode where Guster is hitting on Carlton's sister is hysterical ("Are you dating anyone?"). Getting caught up with canon Lassiter is helping, though, with expanding from there. Or something.

Blue Bell's Banana Pudding flavor ice cream _is_ definitely _my_ favorite. It has actual pieces of Vanilla Wafer in it, and whipped cream! [squeals] I dance a jig whenever I find a half-gallon at the store. Try it sometime. You'll die happy. If they'll just make a half-gallon of chocolate and banana (ala Blue Bell's famous Bomb Sticks), I'll be a happy lass indeed.

Blue Bell is, from what I understand, found in California. I once watched an episode of _Full House_, where they had just opened a half-gallon of Blue Bell Homemade Vanilla, and the doorbell rang and everybody ran out of the kitchen to get it AND THEY LEFT THE ICE CREAM SITTING THERE TO RUIN! I've hated that show ever since. Then again, who doesn't?

What were we talking about?

* * *

><p><strong>CHECK, PLEASE<strong>

"Do you speak French?"

"_Non, __mademoiselle_."

"Are you sure what you ordered?"

"I might have ordered the part about how eating anything raw can lead to food poisoning, but I think I ordered trout almondine." He made no mention of the price, which had made him think food poisoning might be better.

"I wonder what it's called in French?"

"_Le__ trout __almondine_."

"Your pronunciation is wonderful."

"_Merci_."

"It's so weird, being out. You know, I really would have preferred one of those striped prison uniforms, instead of that orange jumpsuit. I felt like I was in the starting lineup of a really bad women's basketball team. The Fighting Mollusks or something."

"You'll get used to it. You've got your first meeting with your parole officer tomorrow and then we'll have lessons on…uh…being out of prison. You know…no more of your shoes being held for ransom by somebody called Big Judy, no more trying to dig holes with plastic spoons…"

She smiled. "Maybe I'm used to being bored."

"You said you read a lot." He looked up from studying the wine menu. He had no taste for wine. Generally, he thought most wines tasted like bat spit and preferred beer.

"I did. Every book in the prison library. I was heavy into gardening by the time I was released. I learned all about the quiet but passionate life of the common garden mole, and how to get rid of said moles."

"How do you do it?"

"Do what?"

"Get rid of moles?"

"You read books to them about gardening. I know that either would get rid of _me._"

"Ah. Then I'll be sure to avoid reading those books to you."

She smiled at him, dazzled by the sight of him. His scent, his hands, his _eyes_. He was wearing a sharp black suit and blue and silver tie, and the candlelight brought out the silver in his hair. She felt giddy. She felt nervous. _She__ felt __horny_. Calm down, she told herself firmly. This is our first actual, official date.

The meal was eaten quietly, with easy conversation about nothing and everything. Birthdays, favorite books, favorite films (mostly Eastwood, with lots of John Wayne, James Stewart, Steve McQueen and Charles Bronson thrown in), mutual favorite TV shows (_Cops, __The __Dick __Van __Dyke __Show, __The __Bob __Newhart __Show,__ Newhart, __Bob, __Big __Valley, Bonanza, __Frasier, __Gunsmoke, Have Gun Will Travel_), favorite foods. Allergies, likes, dislikes, funny, embarrassing and sad stories from childhood. Parents and siblings. Educations, hobbies, interests, frustrations, dreams – all the little things that made them both who they were and would have meant little to anyone else.

"How was yours?" he asked. She looked down at her plate of mostly-eaten veal.

"Hm? Oh. Good."

"Just good?"

"Better than good. The company was the real clincher, though."

He looked pleased, if still a little nervous. The waiter appeared, practically popping up out of nowhere. "Will either of you be having dessert tonight?" he asked.

"No, thanks."

"Thank you, no. I'll be having dessert at home," Marlowe said, having decided that life was way, way too short to dither about.

"You can order dessert if you like," he told her. He had saved up the money for a good meal at a nice restaurant. "Anything you want. Even the rainbow sherbet that is _only_ six-fifty. Apparently it's made of milk, fruit, food coloring, and plutonium."

"No."

"It's not a big deal. I told you…"

"I'll have dessert at home, Carlton."

"Okay. What do you have at home? Pie? Blue Bell Banana Pudding ice cream…?"

She waited for him to stop rambling, knowing he was jittery because he was fiddling around with a breadstick. When he finally stopped talking, she gave him a level stare and he stared back. "Actually, Carlton, my dessert tonight will be a tall, blue-eyed Irishman."

He broke his breadstick in two and gulped, then raised his hand, gesturing to the waiter, who glided over.

"Check! Now! _Please_!"

* * *

><p><strong>WHO KNEW A BOARD GAME COULD BE SO MUCH FUN?<strong>

"Okay, it's your turn."

She watched as he lined up his tiles carefully, studying them, and smiled. He made her weak in the knees when he was so focused, and he was looking particularly delicious now. Finally, he took up three tiles and lined them up on the board, using her second 'e' from 'entire'.

She peered down at the word he had spelled. "Carlton, 'jeet' is not a word."

"Yes it is."

"No. It's not."

"Yes it is."

"Use it in a sentence."

He pursed his lips, thinking, and finally nodded. "Jeet yet?"

"What?"

"You know: 'Jeet yet? Naw. Jew? Naw. Yowntoo? Ahight'."

"Those words only exist in parts of the South, and this is California…where people don't always exactly speak _Earthling_, but that's neither here nor there."

"Mah gran'mothuh was from Jawja," he drawled, in an exaggerated Southern accent, eyes turning a breathtaking sky blue. "Ah do savvy that lingo somewhat..."

"All right, all right," she said, shaking her head. He could make a hokey Southern accent sexy, too, and the way he lazily drawled out those words made her need to shift a little in her chair – why did no one else seem to see how _hot_ he was? Last night, he had tried to teach her a few Irish Gaelic phrases, but she had been laughing so hard over the phrase '_Tá an ceart agat__a bheith__álainn_' that he'd just given up and dragged her back into bed. Good Lord, what had she done to deserve a man like this? "I'll give you the points!"

"Wah thank yew. It's yo tuhn now, baby. That means yew have to take somethin' awf."

Marlowe gave him a sultry look and removed her watch. He glared at her, but she just gave him an impish little smile and began looking over her tiles. "Oh!" She clapped her hands happily and put her tiles down, using his 'g' from 'Glock'.

He stared at her word. "Nugk?"

"Yes."

"What the hell is an nugk?"

"It's…uh…a species of deer, from a tiny region of southern Malaysia. It's about…twelve inches at the shoulder, is light brown in color, has no horns, and…um…when it's excited or nervous it makes…it makes…uh…these 'yip, yip, yip' sounds."

"You just described a poodle."

She glowered at him. He glared back. Finally, she raised an eyebrow, and he admitted defeat by bowing his head, sighing. "Fine. Fine. You did give me 'jeet', so I suppose I can give you 'nugk'."

"Good. All right. Now you have to take something off."

"But I'm down to my boxers! I really need to get a dictionary…"

"It's not my fault you're bad at Scrabble, Carlton. I'm just glad you are. Now…_strip_!"

* * *

><p>FIN<p>

* * *

><p>Translations:<p>

_'_Tá an ceart agat__a bheith__álainn_' _ – You have the right to remain beautiful.


End file.
